Ice Cream Trucks: Melting Away?

When They Hit The Streets, Vendors Enter A Maze Of Restrictions, Outright Bans

May 23, 1997|By Carolyn Starks, Tribune Staff Writer.

When Leo Jacobs first interviewed for the job of ice cream truck driver, he couldn't imagine an easier task than selling frozen treats to kids.

But after a month in the business, he has been confronted with rules and regulations more pesky than bees on a hot summer day.

In Addison, he can ring bells but can't play music. In Schaumburg, he can't go near schoolyards, and he can't go into Hoffman Estates next door. In Glen Ellyn, he's prohibited from six streets. If he goes into Hickory Hills, they want him to vary his music.

Once as welcomed and expected in a neighborhood as the letter carrier, today's ice cream truck driver is facing myriad rules from neighborhood to neighborhood and town to town, ranging from crackdowns on playing "Pop Goes the Weasel" to outright banishment. Not to mention licenses, liability insurance laws and criminal background checks.

Coupled with these restrictions imposed by communities are modern living trends, such as two-income families leaving fewer kids home during the day, changing demographics and parents' mistrust of strangers.

Before Jacobs could begin his route in Schaumburg, he had to clear a background check that searched for a criminal record and a driving record.

"They're real touchy here," Jacobs, 36, said as he turned a corner in the village. "I had to go through a background check with my employer, but I guarantee you the village did a more thorough one than the company."

Some communities such as Dolton, where a 4-year-old boy was struck by a car and killed, have banned ice cream vendors. The bans were prompted by accidents or near hits involving children racing to the trucks. And some suburban officials simply think the ice cream trucks make too much noise.

In Chicago, each ward has the authority to ban ice cream trucks, and at least four have done so since 1993.

The whole issue has baffled Jacobs' boss, Ali Sadghi, a former ice cream truck driver who now co-owns Pars Ice Cream Inc., one of the Chicago area's largest fleets of ice cream trucks.

"It's just a treat, an old-fashioned treat," Sadghi said. "Look at the gangbangers. They are still on the street killing each other. I've never seen an ice cream man getting out there and shooting someone. Banning the ice cream trucks is just a political thing."

But Lake Villa Trustee Joyce Frayer said she has personal experience backing her efforts to ban the trucks.

Last year, at least three different ice cream truck companies trolled through her neighborhood, sometimes "waking kids out of a deep sleep," she said.

"It was mainly the noise they make and kids running to the vehicles," said Frayer, chairwoman of the Village Board's Ordinances and Licenses Committee, which persuaded the board to ban the trucks last September.

"They put these bells on that disturb everyone," Frayer said, "and by the time you get through the neighborhood, you've heard it a thousand times."

To the handful of Baby Boomers who crowded around Jacobs' truck on a recent rainy afternoon, though, banning ice cream trucks is like erasing a part of who they are.

"It's un-American--totally," said Herb Larson, 53, after laying down a dollar for a Nestle's Crunch Bar. "Why ban them? I use to sell ice cream when I was a kid in Chicago. You know, those pushcarts. Then I went to a bicycle."

A nationwide survey in 1991 by the International Association of Ice Cream Vendors estimated there were 25,000 ice cream trucks on the streets in the U.S.

Dale Zeigler, executive director of the association, said the business is not facing extinction despite increasing restrictions. She said her group's upcoming survey will prove it.

For years, Good Humor, now headquartered in Green Bay, dominated the trade in Chicago, sending out more than 100 trucks.

In the late 1970s, the company left the ice cream truck business and sold off its Chicago fleet, which is now in the hands of several independents, like Pars.

Jacobs drives a Pars truck, one of 150 trucks the company circulates in Chicago and its suburbs each summer. While he has cleared all city-imposed rules, Jacobs said he still faces roadblocks with parents.

"Make eye contact with the parents," he said, listing his sales techniques. "I've been called Stranger Danger by some moms, which I understand, since I have a 3-year-old myself. I just try to make eye contact and say, `Thank you.' "

Jacobs' efforts apparently have paid off. A young couple in Addison invited him to share their dinner. On another day, a father asked if he should put a hamburger on the grill for Jacobs.

As he headed for his second stop in Schaumburg, two young girls ran from their homes following the warbled melody from "The Sting" until they found the white truck parked alongside a curb.

Out of her teddy bear backpack, an 11-year-old girl pulled out a dollar for a Flintstones Rock Pop. Her friend didn't have enough money.

Jacobs reached deep into a freezer and pulled out an orange Popsicle.

"No charge," he said and steered his truck toward the next neighborhood.